


dancing in the dark

by manticoremoons



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hearing Voices, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9233531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: Magnus was apparently alive when the Dead Sea was just a lake that was feeling a little poorly. It's not all it's cracked up to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [Shadowhunters Free-for-all Ficathon Round 2](http://ladygawain.livejournal.com/83816.html) prompt: _Magnus/Alec - Whether you are the moon or the sun, I do not know. Either way, you guide me out of the darkness and into the light._  
>  — Ramn Grewal (either one or both) for grapecase. 
> 
> This set at some point in the next several episodes of the show. I hope you enjoy <3

 

Ragnor had always celebrated his birthday in the Spring. He could never remember the exact date—it was probably at a time before humans invented calendars, Magnus had often joked. After all, if Magnus was old _now_ , Ragnor had already been so when they’d first met hundreds of years ago.

_Hundreds_.

There were times when Magnus allowed himself to be ‘shocked’ at the fact of his immortality; at the fact that he’d seen more nations rise and fall than he could count on two hands; he’d seen old worlds and customs pass into new; the birth and death of literary movements; the start and end of bloody, painful, ugly human wars and shadow wars. An endless unstoppable cycle.

It reminded him that he, unlike these other things, opposed Nature’s own rules. He remained, unchanging. A spindly insect frozen in amber, so that generations could come and go and come and find him still there, caught. (There were even less pleasant words for it: a fossil; preserved, like a pickle; mummified, like the dead).

Magnus brought the daisy to his nose and sniffed. It didn’t smell like much, just fresh air and the whisper of summer, like _newness_. Ragnor had liked that about this time of year. Cloistered in his musty miserable mansion in the English countryside, surrounded by an endless profusion of buzzing bees, pollinating plants and fecund creatures, it must have been nice to feel so a part of it all. To imagine—while he sneezed like a fool, he’d always had terrible allergies—that he wasn’t going to be left behind. But that Nature would take him along for the ride.

With a huff, Magnus thanked the side-street flower seller for the raggedy bouquet of yellow daisies and pink, purple and white freesias. He didn’t often buy flowers but after hours spent summoning a greater demon for a few Wall Street bankers, using an obscene amount of magic to ensure that he didn't open a gateway to a few hells while doing so; and another appointment all the way in London with an overly-tanned socialite in need of a love potion for her philandering husband—flowers seemed like a fine idea.

It was the end of the day and Brooklyn seemed as tired as he felt, the blurry orange haze of sunset, the sluggish traffic choking every single street, the sidewalks crammed full of people on their way home from work and others on their way to work. No one paid Magnus any mind, they were all too full of their own concerns, getting on with their lives and he liked that.

If Ragnor had found refuge in nature, Magnus had always felt most himself and most optimistic in the midst of a throbbing city. There was a simple sort of joy in watching urban life happen in all its chaos and human error, in all its charming scruffiness and filth and crime, in all its quotidian adventures—the first sip of a caramel latte from Starbucks, the mound of curdling dog shit some irresponsible walker always left just outside his apartment stoop (he’d considered cursing said walker with something, permanent body odour or premature hair loss but he could never find it in himself to do so); the rude, and occasionally romantic messages people etched into the nooks and crannies of subway cars ( _fUck OFF!; J+V 4eva;_ _… take the blue pill bitch; GANGNAM STYLE!_ ; and so on).

He let himself into the loft, summoning a sparkling crystal vase from a Macy’s store in California for his flowers. He filled it with water and a sprinkle of Epsom salt, humming as he arranged them carefully in their new (but inevitably temporary) home.

“Oh, I see you’re in one of your maudlin moods.”

Magnus grinned at his visitor without bothering to turn around.

“Well, since you’ve been gone, I have to fill two immortal loser quotas, and it’s your time of year.”

A scoff of disdain was his only response. That sound warmed his heart, he’d missed even _that_.

He poured himself a snifter of _Laphroaig_ , and another for his visitor with a few cubes of ice like always. The mellow burn of it down his throat and into his stomach was pleasant and familiar. He plopped into his favourite sofa and shut his eyes.

“So do you intend to just lie there like a sloth all evening or do you have plans?”

“I’m not moving from this couch, my little cabbage. It’s an excellent couch, I might add. I could spend a small eternity in it and not feel uncomfortable.”

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight, old friend.”

“And why is that, dear heart? You spent years and years alone, and you did just fine, if I recall.”

“Yes, but I _liked_ being alone and I _hated_ people.” There was a clatter of ice cubes. “You’ve always been different.”

It wasn’t untrue. It was the reason, for instance, that Magnus had opened the _Pandemonium_ —named to spite his father, a sort of futile ‘fuck you, Dad, I can build my own little chaotic and filthy underworld kingdom, too.’ He liked being surrounded by all sorts of bodies united in one objective: to seek and experience as much pleasure and escape in the liquor-stained dark as possible.

It was why he’d spent the 90s attaining his fifth doctorate (in criminology, of all things, the result of watching too much _Law & Order_, no doubt) and signing up for all sorts of DIY how-to courses ( _how to pot your own plants; how to build your own cupboard; how to pickle your own beets_ ) because he’d loved sitting in a class alongside a bunch of other bumbling people, figuring out stuff like how to crochet a Christmas sweater.

It was why he’d passed the 80s and most of the 70s, to be fair, in a durable sequined jumpsuit at one long drink-and-drug-fuelled party—or at least it had felt that way.

It was even why he’d enlisted as an infantry-man in the First World War, a grave mistake. The trenches had been unkind, the noise of grenades and mortar shells, the sizzle of flamethrowers, the stench of mustard gas itching in his eyes and his skin and his throat; the feeling of wading through graves neck-full of people who _wouldn’t stop dying, and coughing out blood as their faces disintegrated, and calling for their mothers as their lives stuttered to a close_.

He had wondered if he, like them, would call for his own mother in his last moments. She wouldn’t hear him if he did. And besides, on the off-chance that she heard his cries on some ghost frequency radio, she’d never answer. It was a daft thought.

That was one of the few times in his long life when he’d understood the superfluity of his magic, _of him_ , in a world where mortals were determined to off each other. For years after, he’d dreamed of that war, even after he’d come to New York, opened a speakeasy, and spent a decade as a fairly successful liquor smuggler. It was the kind of experience that stained the conscience like tea leaves.

“Well, I’m hardly alone, am I? I have you.”

“By which you mean you have yourself, you dolt.”

Magnus shrugged, polished off his snifter and refilled it with a tilt of his brow. “Semantics, cabbage leaf, semantics.”

“What happened to the boy? Lightwood, wasn’t that his name?”

“You know his name, idiot.”

“Just checking if you did.”

“He’s—.” And Magnus was not entirely sure how to answer this. He had been busy, of late. Meeting after meeting with each of the Downworld factions. Several of those had ended with him having to subdue fanged-out vampires and clawed-out wolves ready to rip each other's throats at the slightest provocation, using his authority as High Warlock to cow them into keeping their irksome traps shut. Trips to and from the Spiral Labyrinth in attempts to establish a coherent warlock position in this tedious war. A task made that much more difficult given the historical precedent of an emphatically individualistic approach to survival his people were prone to—for all sorts of valid reasons. But with a threat so great, it was time, perhaps, to change.

Alexander had been busy, too. Something about a diplomatic envoy to the Seelies, and intensive training and strategizing around the ever-present Valentine threat, especially necessary with all his batshit Forsakens thrown into the mix. Bashing heads with the Clave and their representative—that Aldertree guy—was probably a pain, too.

Magnus had not wanted to be _one of those_ boyfriends (they hadn’t even properly established whether that’s what they were calling this _thing_ ). Magnus had not wanted to be _one of those_ friends. The needy types who demanded time and space and attention _all the time_ , as stifling as a thick inner city smog if they weren’t careful. The kind who would be too _this_ , too _that_ , too _much_.

“There’s a lot going on, we’re in….”

Magnus didn’t know how to describe it. Limbo, perchance? They were still in this awkward stage where he wasn’t sure how much or how little to push.

It was all very exhilarating, of course. He hadn’t been joking all those weeks ago about Alexander unlocking something inside him that he’d thought long dead and mouldy. And the few times they’d been together, like the time he’d helped with setting up some wards at the Institute right after Jace’s return, or the evening they’d gone on their rather adventurous first date, or their drinks at the Hunter’s Moon had been good. _Great_ , even.

Alexander had reached out to hold his hand under the stained glass windows of the Institute’s cloisters, uncaring of the prying eyes around them, his bow-callused forefinger running carefully along the lines of Magnus’ palm; a gesture so small and sweet that had still somehow left Magnus’ hand tingling for hours afterwards. That first good-night kiss on his doorstep which had left them both reeling—Alexander so much so that he’d tripped his way down the stairs. The slightly more thorough kisses on their walk back from the Hunter’s Moon, stopping under the awning of some closed café, the smell of burnt coffee beans mingling with Alec’s sharp cologne, the way they’d just drank each other deep in the twilight until their lips stung.

These moments had been good. Thrilling in their newness, terrifying as well.

“Hiding away in your lair, and not going after what you want or need won’t help you, my friend.”

“I know.” And Magnus felt his eyes grow hot all of a sudden. It wasn’t even about Alexander, really. It was so many things. “I’m just—I’m so very _tired_ , mon p'tit chou.” His voice sounded whiny to his own ears.

He got like this sometimes. It might last an hour, or a decade, just, _sad_. It was the luxury of immortality, he’d always thought. That you could waste a decade in a pall of depression or grief or whatever, feel so weighted down by stuff and feelings that you didn’t wish to move. And you didn’t.

Catarina always had a way of dragging him out of his funks. A well-timed joke; a cup of hot tea laced with honey and coconut milk that reminded him of being a child; a hard flick on his nose. He wished that there was someone around to flick him on the nose, yank him out of his own head.

“Then you must let yourself rest.” It was hollow, far-off like an echo of some long-ago conversation.

Magnus jerked at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. He didn’t move from his seat though, just turned his head to look. His heart did an odd thing, tried to leap out of his chest cavity, and he could almost hear Ragnor tsking him in disgust at this new display of weakness.

Who could blame him with the full force of Alexander’s mouth curled in a slightly hesitant half-smile, his hands stuffed in his pockets safe from the evening’s chill wind, his cheeks bruised pink with it.

“Magnus,” Alexander said.

“Alexander, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He gestured for his new companion to sit down, clicked his fingers so a mug of Double Diamond beer appeared in Alec’s hand, sweeter than the one he'd tried a few weeks ago at the Hunter’s Moon.

“Oh—thanks,” Alec said, his right hand coming up to catch the bottom of the mug so it didn’t fall. He took a sip, a tiny grin when he realised Magnus had remembered. Another swallow, and he placed his drink carefully on the table in front of him. He rubbed his damp fingers on his trousers, and cleared his throat. “I—how are you?”

“Oh, you know,” Magnus said easily, a swig of his whiskey, his voice was almost too-loud in the space between them. “Being High Warlock has been a tiresome toil of late, so much to do and not much time for it.” He couldn’t quite summon a laugh to go with his new-found breeziness.

Alexander frowned. He narrowed his archer’s eyes at Magnus, studying him a little too thoroughly and then he said, “I’m sorry for not calling first or anything. I was in the area—caught a few ravener demons on 5th and Carmine, and that’s a ten-minute walk from here.” The intensity in his eyes relaxed just a bit, and this time, just a bit softer: “Also. I missed you.”

Magnus’ heart did that thing again. He wondered briefly if this was what _angina pectoris_ felt like, which would be an awful way to go. He didn’t really know what to do with this knowledge of _being_ _missed_. He had thought that he was all alone on the pining front, that he needed to hold still and back. But Alexander, in his usual blunt manner, set it straight.

It may as well have been a sonnet of epic proportions for all the ways it undid Magnus, cracked him open.

“I missed you, too,” was all he could say in response.

Alexander smiled, a sigh of relief slipping out of his mouth as if he’d been afraid—the way Magnus was—that he was alone in this.

They gazed at each other for a long few seconds. Ragnor would have made fun of both of them, _stop mooning at each other, children_. Before promptly spelling a bucket of cold water on Magnus’ head and ruining his coiffure. _It would serve you right_ , he’d have said.

Magnus snickered at the image.

“What?” Alec asked, a curious quirk of his eyebrow.

Shaking his head, Magnus didn’t reply. _God, he missed Ragnor_ — _so much_. The ache of that wouldn’t go away for a long while yet. But the weight of it felt just a tad less burdensome, for the moment, with the welcome distraction of Alexander. And because he wanted to hold onto this respite, he blurted, “Come sit by me.”

Before he could add a more mannerly “please”, Alexander had lunged somewhat gracefully to his side, dropping onto the couch beside him. It wasn’t a big couch, and with the two of them on it together, it got even cosier. They slipped together in the small space, Alec arranging his long legs under the table so he sat low against the fluffy cushions, Magnus tucking his legs underneath his butt, sidling close until his head notched on Alec’s shoulder like it had always fit there.

This was new.

Magnus understood bodies, he understood how they worked together—dancing, fighting, _fucking_. Centuries of learning the physics of all of these. It was rare that he’d had something as, well, humdrum as this: cuddling on a couch with a cute boy on a cool Spring night. It felt like a charming movie Magnus had once watched, or like many movies, actually. Even with a strain, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed such a thing with someone. Maybe never.

Shifting back, Magnus caught Alexander’s gaze. He looked vaguely surprised too, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his warrior’s body in this situation. Now that he was so near, Magnus noted how tired he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, a healing scar above his left brow that was fading to a dusky pink from the iratze he must have used, the five-o’clock shadow darkened his jaw lent a dangerous air to him, he looked like a hard-edged hunter who’d spent far too many hours on the job.

His eyes were a soft mossy green at this distance. Blinking, those ridiculous eyelashes of his shadowing his cheeks, he uttered, “I’m going to kiss you, now, if that’s all right.”

Magnus nodded stupidly.

Alec’s lips were cool, slightly wind-chapped and the tang of beer lingered there. He tipped his head so his nose smushed right up against Magnus’ cheek, and deepened the kiss. Magnus opened his mouth, lapped at Alec’s lower lip before chasing that with a graze of his teeth. Muffling some curse, Alec grasped Magnus’ chin, taking control of the kiss with a confidence that belied his experience. His fingers were warm, rough from handling so many weapons, fighting too many wars, but gentle here. Careful. Like he was holding pieces of broken china plate in his palm.

Magnus let himself be kissed. Angling his head back, acquiescing to the insistent hungry pressure of Alec’s mouth. He decided, in that purple fog of pleasure, that he liked the feeling of being devoured. Reaching up to grip Alec’s hand, he linked their fingers together.

It was the kind of kissing that didn’t have a destination in mind, an ellipsis of sorts. Just tongues, and teeth; learning each other’s mouths and the sounds they made: wet, sucking sounds; Magnus’ pitched growl when Alec’s fingers sketched the muscles at his throat; Alec’s needy whimper let out when they paused to breathe for a few moments.

It was one such moment—the two of them catching their breath for a second, Alec’s hair was tangled from Magnus’ fingers and his kiss-swollen lips begged to be nibbled on some more; Magnus had clambered half-on-top of him to get close enough that he could feel Alec’s half-hard cock through his jeans right up against his left thigh—that he thought to ask:

“Did you want to go out tonight? Another date? I could take you dancing, if you like.”

Alec snorted at the mention of dancing—Magnus would have to change his mind on that front sometime in the future. He wanted to do all those things with Alec, dance in the dark, sing in the rain. All the absurd clichés.

Tilting his head, Alec nipped at Magnus’ ear—a movement that elicited a full-body shiver—and said, soft and sure, “No, no. I just—I like this. Just this. Us.”

“All right.”

Magnus didn’t mind that. He didn’t mind it at all.

 

# ∞

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is a gift. Come join the fun at [Shadowhunters Free-for-all Ficathon Round 2](http://ladygawain.livejournal.com/83816.html)!


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